I love my bad habits like I love my Bungaranamus

Some people bitch and moan about "addiction this" or "unsafe sexual practice that" or "Pardon me, Squire, I don't like RUAS". Well you pucker-faced weasel farts can all lap at the bounty of my left tittingale because while you're shutting your dildo-hole I'm going to tell you all just how it is. Look, I don't come to where you work and strap on the - ... okay, maybe I do, but you get the picture you fucking freaks.

Like for instance: just because my car killed a fucking squirrel I don't want to hear you mamby-pamby pansies come bitching and moaning to me. Look: I'm not Jesus. Okay, maybe I am, but that's besides the point, because even if I can raise the squirrel from the dead, why would I go to the effort, because 1) he's a fucking squirrel and 2) it was the car's fault, anyway. I know that that rancid whore Miss Meems would say it would make a tastey entree dans mon pot du crock, but I personally am not into Carolina Barbecue. I like fancier, slightly more gay fare (you know, chocolate-covered strawberries served by body builders wearing thongs, anything from the Judas Priest 1982 fan cookbook).

Jeff will be devoured by Sailor Ants in a weird post-apocalyptic world where I read to him from Oprah's Book Club and make him listen to Starship. In the future, somewhere around the Book of Revelations.